Abaddon
by hpluva7812
Summary: You say that us Muggles have no power? Perhaps you speak truly. But you say that dreams have no power here? Tell me... what power would Hell have if those imprisoned were not able to dream of Heaven?"


**_Uh... hi. This is my latest fic (well, not really. I wrote it like a year ago, just posting it now :s). And just so you guys don't get confused, this is just my idea of life for muggles supposing Voldemort had won the battle at the end of Deathly Hallows. I must stress that this contains very very very strong violence, and some of the scenes (i.e. the last bit) is very graphic. Yeah... so its not my favourite fic, coz this style isnt really me, but it's always fun to experiment, so enjoy!_**

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_**Abaddon**_

The Dark Lord is all powerful. He rules his subjects callously and has no mercy in him to show. He sits on his throne all day and surveys the kingdom darkly, making sure the rules are enforced to their fullest potential. He sees everything and nobody gets away with anything. Rule-breakers and dreamers cause conflict; and so he routinely eliminates them before they can destroy his magical utopia.

It seems like a boring job, just sitting there all day watching everything. But basking in the glory of his immense victory is always entertainment enough. The tokens of said victory surround him in a dark aura which complements the décor of the base point in a dark yet pleasant way (or at least, it's pleasant in his opinion).

The Base Point is where the Dark Lord lives. It is the point from which he surveys the kingdom and makes regular checks upon his workers—all of which can be done without moving once from the chair that once sat the ex-greatest wizard of all time: Albus Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore, the man who had fallen from the Lightning Struck Tower and into the arms of death at the hands of an old friend. Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard of all time; the name the Dark Lord sneers at, who's chair resides beneath the Dark Lord.

Small, floating pensives are dotted at intervals around the walls, each containing one memory. Each memory dark and gruesome and can be described with a single word: death. For that is what each pensive holds. They hold the memory of the Dark Lords favourite victims (or at least, the ones whose deaths brought the most satisfaction). They are placed in order of importance: the most important right at the back of the room, in the centre, and the pensives spread outward, each death less important.

Every single day, the Dark Lord will get up from his throne, walk noiselessly to the back of the room to the golden pensive which contrasts remarkably to the other silver basins and watch. Almost as if reminding himself that his kingdom is not a dream, he will every day watch over and over again the death of Harry Potter. He will every day be reminded of his landslide victory. He will every day be reminded that there is no force on Earth strong enough to bring him down. A smile curves at his lips as he watches yet again, the downfall of his enemy, listens again to the pained scream of the seventeen year old as he is enveloped in a green aura. Along with Harry Potter, there are the memories of other great wizard's deaths. Harry's parents are there somewhere, though their deaths are considered of low importance in the Dark Lord's collection. Albus Dumbledore is there, and would be the prize of this king's collection had it not been for Potter. Severus Snape and Regulus Black (though many thought the latter hardly mattered) were there too. All great wizards, all fallen to the hands of a greater force. As they say, there is always a bigger fish.

The Base is situated in the Dark Lord's favourite place. The first and only place to accept him as a child. The only place which (until now) he could truly call his home: Hogwarts. Hogwarts, the castle which gave him the power to build his new world.

So, as put in the above statement, the Dark Lord sits around on his throne all day, entertains himself with death, and rules the wizarding and muggle world with ruthless force; never having to lift a finger to get what he wants. Although, if feeling particularly enthused, he will go down to the cities and help his faithful servants eliminate rule breakers.

Which brings us to the cities (what? Surely you didn't think that after the takeover the cities would remain the same?). No, after his victory in the late nineties, the Dark Lord rebuilt all the worlds' cities. First came the Great Division, when the Dark Lord divided the world into Magical (pure bloods and half bloods only) and non-magical/mudbloods.

The magical side of the world was shaped into a wizard's paradise. A large island was created in the middle of the Pacific ocean called Atlantia (At-lan-sh-ee-a). The cities are constructed purely of crystal and not one muggle artefact is to cross the coastlines without permission (with the exception of the Slave Trade). Security is high and only the purest and richest of wizards are permitted to live there, though others do often visit for holidays and such. The gates to Atlantia are guarded by two Dementors who stand at either side, ready to kiss illegal muggles/rule breakers. The gates are made of pure platinum and they stand one hundred feet tall. At the very top of the gates, the message 'putus animi' is engraved in large, fancy scrawl. All wizards know this to mean 'pure at heart'; a reminder to them all that the world is supposedly better all-magical.

The rest of the Wizarding Hemisphere was cleansed of any muggle connections. Vehicles were destroyed, muggle hospitals demolished, the police force replaced by Death Eaters. In other words, the wizarding half of the world was cleaned until nothing muggle remained.

Now we come to the Muggle/Mudblood half of the world. It is horrendous. Ask around the unfortunate residents and you will find that not one of them can say they wouldn't trade places with a wizard if they could. The cities are constructed in a block pattern that winds and loops in ridiculous ways so that the only way for a muggle to escape the hellish labyrinths is to be guided out. Any mudbloods or people who disagreed with the new world live there too. Their wands were confiscated long ago, so there only hope at life is to live like a muggle at the bottom of the food chain.

The cities are guarded heavily by Dementors, making the Muggle Hemisphere like a half-world Azkaban (which, of course, was taken down long ago). The muggles live in poverty and their towns are covered in a permanent state of darkness (they are deemed unworthy to see sunlight). They are treated less than gently by the despicable guards so their lives remind one of the WW2 concentration camps where the Jews (in this case muggles) were beat and killed with Hitler (the Dark Lord) bearing down upon them with no mercy all the while. Death Eaters aid the Dementors in the guarding of the non-magical.

All dream of escape from this hell. All hope that one day; they will see the sun again.

Some actually get their wish. You may recall the earlier mention of a Slave Trade. Now, the Slave Trade is a legal, profitable organisation set up by the Death Eaters. Once every few months, the Death Eaters will go into the muggle towns and take a select few. These chosen muggles (usually 500-700 per load) will then be loaded onto a cargo ship which runs on crystal juice (a rare substance found inside the extremely rare Chabakken Crystal), and shipped to Atlantia to be sold off as slaves to the rich families on the island.

To the non-magic folk, this would be a blessing; because although they would definitely not be treated any better, and although they do not get paid for their work, they would see the sun. For that is what they all want, the dark half of the world. All they long for is to feel the golden sun kiss their skin once more.

So this is the Dark Lord's new world; known to the Muggles as _Abaddon._

Abaddon- the depths of hell.

That is the official definition for it.

That is the location to where the muggles are condemned.

That is their life.

As much as it is their death…

At this very moment, a woman named Zaphira Kierston is lying on the floor, too tired to open her eyes, move, and even breathe. Her work tools lie untouched merely feet away from her fingers, which are gently closed into a fist as her deep slumber continues. Her waist length, dirty-blonde, scraggly hair blankets her face as she lies there, un-breathing, waiting for death to come and greet her.

Her assigned duty is to mine Chabakken Crystals to run the slave ships. Sure, the wizards could do the same job by magic and get twice the jewels in half the time, but no, they prefer to make the muggles suffer. And numerous fifteen-hour shifts without a single break are taking its toll on the young woman who can not be more than eighteen. She has no family, no friends, no sunlight, and therefore, no reason to live. So that is why she lies there, her eyes closed tightly, breath held, trying to die. However, her little suicide attempt does not go unnoticed by her ruthless supervisor.

"Girl! What are you doing?" Came a hoarse voice from a few feet away.

Zaphira lets out the breath she has been holding and allows her lungs to take in the thick, humid air of the underground mine, disgust visible on her pixie-like features. She lazily opens one eye to behold her addresser. He looks to be at least six feet tall. And even from her position on the ground she can smell his putrid breath which holds the stench of a thousand rotten corpses. Although his face is partially covered by a dark hood, she can still make out the rest of his face enough to recognise him. It is Fenrir Greyback, the Werewolf.

He leans over her, sneering. She shows no fear. She knows what she wants and so she asks for it through retaliation.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm resting…" she whispers, letting her voice trail off at the end.

Greyback grabs her bony arm roughly, his claw-like nails digging in. Beads of blood begin to form where he pierces the flesh.

"Get back to work you worthless piece of shit!" he bellows.

"I can't. I have no energy." She replies, a hint of desperation in her cracking voice.

The words barely leave her mouth before he grabs her by the hair and shoves her face first into the hard, muddy walls.

"You see these walls?" he asks, his voice filled with contempt. "They are filled with thousands and thousands of Chabakken Crystals! It is your job to dig them out with your little tools over there,"

He then proceeds to grind her face into the wall. She has no energy for a cry of pain as she feels the tiny rocks in the soil split her skin. Drops of her blood cascade down the wall and mingle with the dirt, turning the stained areas a strange maroon colour.

"Now, get back to work Muggle!" he orders.

Zaphira pulls her dirty, bloodstained face away from the wall, and stands her ground.

"My name is Zaphira," she growls.

Greyback eyes her incredulously.

"You dare disrespect me? You, a muggle, dares to back answer her superior? I think you muggle's should have more common sense!" he says.

"Maybe you didn't hear me before. My name is Zaphira! And I'm no muggle! My parents were but I'm not! But I would rather be a muggle that admit to being anything like you!" and with that, she spits on him.

Fenrir Greyback gives a yell of fury and launches himself at her. She stumbles backwards slightly and doesn't bother to fight back with her petit body. He grabs her arm and twists. She turns with her arm as a natural way to ease the pain. It doesn't work. Zaphira bites her lip as she hears the crack signalling he has finally twisted too far, and he kicks her in the backside, sending her headlong into the wall.

Stars blink in her eyes as her skull makes impact with the soil and stone. And Greyback hauls her up by her hair and forces her to face him.

"Apologise Mudblood," he snaps.

"Apologise for what? Standing up for what I believe in?" she retorts.

He growls, a noise deep from his stomach, making his werewolf status obvious. Snarling, he aims a hard kick to her stomach. She flies backwards and her back crashes into a rock with a sickening snap. Her spine is broken.

From there it all gets worse. It is a well known fact that Fenrir Greyback has a nasty temper.

So there Zaphira lies, broken, bruised and bleeding; one of her sharp mining tools protruding from her chest. And as she lies there dying, a single word flashes to the front of her mind.

_Finally…_

Greyback stands there watching her come ever closer to death, not regretting it in the slightest. It is what the Dark Lord would have done. She was useless; disposing of her will not make a difference. He realises when she dies. It's almost like a light leaves her body. Her innocent blue eyes turn blank and stare ahead, unseeing.

Already she is starting to smell so he scoops her up roughly in his arms and climbs up the nearest passageway out of the mine. As he reaches the surface, he notices a group of muggles encircling the entrance of the mine; presumably, they heard the crashes. He breaks away from the crowd and moves towards the body ditch located around fifty metres away. He is almost there when a man runs through the crowd towards them. His eyes are wild and he looks deranged, his filthy rags blowing about him in the cold winds. Greyback smirks at him.

"How could you? You monster! You didn't just kill her, you tortured her you bastard!" he yells. "Why? Why do you bother keeping us alive if all you do is torture us anyway? First it was little Jimmy Makenzie, now her!" he gestures to Zaphira's lifeless body, hanging limply in Greyback's arms. "And I'm fucking sick of it!" he finishes his diatribe and spits unabashedly on Greyback's feet.

For a moment, Greyback looks stunned, but quickly collects himself and begins to walk menacingly towards the middle-aged man. He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off.

"Down, Greyback. Let me talk to this man. Surely he shall listen to reason,"

Everyone turns to see the Dark Lord walking towards them. The man who insulted Greyback gazes upon him with loathing and disgust and points a shaking finger at him.

"You!" he hisses. "This is all your fault! We're in a living hell and you don't even care!"

The Dark Lord's face remains expressionless, and this infuriates the man more, but even so, he keeps his silence.

"You would do better, than to disrespect your superiors so," says the Dark Lord in that same cold, silky tone which he always uses.

"Superiors my arse!" the man says scornfully. "You're nothing more than a killer. You think you're all powerful now, but you will be beaten some day! I don't know how, I don't know when, but someone will make the world good again,"

It takes a great effort for the Dark Lord not to roll his eyes at this statement.

"Hope will do you no good here," he replies darkly. "You are as powerless as your dreams in my world,"

The man drops to his knees, almost begging the Dark Lord to see reason.

"Oh, that is where you're wrong," he begins, and then continues. "You say that us Muggles have no power? Perhaps you speak truly… But you say that dreams have no power here? Tell me… What power would hell have if those imprisoned were not able to dream of heaven?"

Those are the last words to escape his wasted lips before he is enveloped in a field of green, never to move again. The Dark Lord stands tall, smirking, the last words of the dead man at his feet still echoing in his mind.


End file.
